


The Henrietta Farrow Charity Gala

by FrivolousSuits



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 16:07:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11947800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrivolousSuits/pseuds/FrivolousSuits
Summary: “Next up in our talent show,” the announcer declares, “is another child of the legal world. Please welcome Harvey Specter, who will be performing a brand-new hit from Broadway!”. . . That’s not right.Written for Suits 100‘s 64th prompt: “At a social event (fundraiser, maybe) character A secretly puts character B on the list for the event’s talent competition.“





	The Henrietta Farrow Charity Gala

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally made this a talent show rather than an explicit competition, but given the people involved it ends up being ridiculously competitive regardless!

Harvey hands Mike his invitation to the Henrietta Farrow Charity Gala. “This right here is proof you’re making a mark on this city. I’ve already had Donna RSVP on your behalf saying you’d be thrilled to come–”

“But–”

“So go see Rene for a new tux.”

And with a grand wave of his hand, Harvey shoos Mike from his office.

He sighs and stops by Donna’s desk. “I know Harvey usually has the monopoly on being Bruce Wayne, but I’m really tempted to scream about fat spreads and society hags right now.”

“Oh, give it a break,” she chuckles. “Some of the money does actually make it to charity, and it’s fun.”

“It’s funding research on terminal illness, that’s the opposite of fun.”

“And even an hour of scientific speeches about dying a slow, painful death is funny when there’s that much champagne. Especially if you’re mostly sober and everyone else at your table is spilling their deepest secrets.” She winks.

“. . . Okay, I’m never going to get drunk while you’re around.”

“Smart puppy.”

* * *

To the extent that he can, Mike largely forgets about the ball, but he still picks up rumors and whispers around the office.

“Henrietta’s a 72-year-old ball of sass and seduction,” Norma tells him with a cackle. “We go _waaay_ back.”

“Henrietta invites all the most respected lawyers and doctors and businessmen from around the city and then presses them for secrets, though whether for blackmail or personal pleasure, nobody can tell,” Katrina mutters to him. “That’s what the talent show’s for. And also the infrared cameras in the hedges and on the roof. She says they’re for ‘security,’ but I hear she only turns them on the night of the gala.”

“Henrietta’s my role model,” Donna sighs dreamily.

* * *

And so Mike ends up at the mansion of a geriatric woman who somehow terrifies him more than Jessica Pearson, checking his reflection in a hallway mirror and fidgeting with his bowtie.

“There you are, rookie. Brave choice, hanging a piece of non-representational art around your neck.”

Mike just throws him a look. “Ties are hard enough, but this thing’s outright trying to kill me.”

“Oh, for god’s sake–” Harvey takes Mike by the shoulders and turns him away from the mirror– “I’ll do it.”

“But what about the cameras–” He cuts off his sentence as Harvey’s suddenly loosening the bowtie and re-tying it properly, practically caressing Mike’s neck.

“It’s _because_ of the cameras that I can’t have you looking like an embarrassment,” Harvey replies a moment later, his smirk surprisingly gentle. Then he turns and strides back down the hallway, calling, “Isn’t that right, Henrietta?”

Mike just stares, unable to shake the feeling of having entered the Twilight Zone. He can still feel the prints of Harvey’s hands, warm on his skin.

* * *

Donna takes a seat by Mike, holding two glasses of champagne. “Would you like a drink?”

He eyes her briefly before accepting. “Is it just me, or is Louis acting more like a supervillain than usual?”

“It’s the talent show,” she explains. “He’s probably sabotaging whatever poor sucker’s going after him.”

“. . . Why?”

“Because he says that, in a talent show, one is judged not only by their own performance but by the performances of those immediately before and after him. And given that I’m before him . . .”

“He can only sabotage the person after him.” Mike shudders. “Well, good luck to you, at least.”

“I don’t need luck,” she replies with a wink. “I’m Donna.”

* * *

Louis’ bucktoothed smile grows even more prominent the nearer the show draws. Mike tries to imagine what sort of attack he’s planned for his successor– starting a slanderous rumor? Poisoning a cup? Literally breaking a leg? He tries to enjoy Donna’s monologue, an objectively brilliant piece of thespian magic, and Louis’ monologue, which sadly proves almost as impressive, but he can’t shake the feeling of foreboding.

“Next up in our talent show,” the announcer declares, “is another child of the legal world. Please welcome Harvey Specter, who will be performing a brand-new hit from Broadway!”

That’s not right. That can’t be right. Harvey Specter would never stoop to engaging in such a spectacle, and certainly not with _musical theater_.

Mike gapes at Donna, who is gaping at Louis, who stole his smile straight off the Joker. Then Mike shoots a glance at Harvey, who is wearing his impenetrable poker face as he gets up from his seat. The audience titters as he makes his way onstage, but Mike stays silent as he waits for his boss to take the mic, apologize for the mix-up, and drop out of the show–

He certainly doesn’t expect Harvey to stride up to the grand piano and shoo away the accompanist.

Harvey raises the piano’s lid and props it up with what Mike realizes is practiced ease, before sitting down on the bench and placing his hands over the keys. His fingers hover for just a moment, and Mike’s breath stops—

From the first measure there are cheers, because this song is from Hamilton, the show this whole city is obsessed with, tripping over itself for seats, treating the ticket lottery like it’s the Powerball. To be fair, Mike’s mildly obsessed with Hamilton himself, though he first approached the story through the Chernow biography. It’s a rags-to-riches story about an orphaned lawyer who rises through the ranks in New York on the strength of his genius—what’s not to love?

Mike recognizes the song at once—“Satisfied”—and he’s surprised. He would have pegged Harvey as more of a “My Shot” or “Non-Stop” guy, dallying briefly with “The Reynolds Pamphlet” or “Burn” when he’s on one of his loyalty kicks. Still, there Harvey Specter is onstage, playing the song of a discontented maid of honor watching the man she loves marry her sister. He’s doing an excellent job of it, too, playing from memory, and he keeps his expression calm and blank as he rolls smoothly through the intro.

The song itself devolves into controlled chaos as Angelica, the maid of honor, reflects on her past. Harvey has of course eschewed the lyrics, but he captures the building tension, pressing a pedal so that his notes start to run into one another— and then something snaps. The song turns suddenly spartan, almost clinical, a series of beats with all the spirit of a sewing machine.

 _I remember that night, I just might–_  
_I remember that night, I just might–_  
_I remember that, I remember that–_

Mike murmurs the words as Angelica plunges back into full-bodied song, recounting a ball where innumerable suitors tried to impress her and her sisters, _tripping over themselves to win their praise_. Harvey too plunges into the music, weaving rich harmonies with his left hand, embellishing the main line with variations and grace notes and brief trills.

_But Alexander, I’ll never forget the first time I saw your face._

His stare flits from Harvey’s fingers to his eyes, now drifting shut even as he presses forward, physically leaning into each chord he plays.

 _I have never been the same,_  
_Intelligent eyes and a hunger-pang frame,_  
_And when you said ‘hi’ I forgot my damn- dang name . . ._

Mike blinks as he stumbles over the word, replacing Angelica’s tame adjective with what Harvey would say instead.

_Set my heart aflame, every part aflame, this is not a game._

Here Alexander enters a dialogue with Angelica, and Mike knows his part should feel low, smooth, suave. Yet there’s a strange ping in how Harvey plays the notes. They’re short and fresh, brazen and cheeky and somehow almost _cute_ , even as Angelica’s notes answer with a more mature, even-handed gravitas.

 _You strike me as a woman who has never been satisfied_ , Alexander announces.

Angelica replies, _I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, you forget yourself._

 _You’re like me_ , he says. _I’m never satisfied._

 _Is that right?_ There’s an undeniable fondness in how Angelica sings those words, and Harvey keeps the same wistful edge in his playing. As he does, an old snatch of conversation echoes in Mike’s mind.

_I’m inclined to give you a shot, but what if I decide to go another way?_

_I’d say that’s fair. Sometimes I like to hang out with people who aren’t that bright– you know, just to see how the other half lives._

Mike chuckles at the memory.

 _I’ve never been satisfied_ , Alexander insists.

_Where’s your family from?_

_Unimportant! There’s a million things I haven’t done, but just you wait, just you wait!_

_So, so, so–_ Harvey opens his eyes and launches full-force into Angelica’s rap. He strikes the keys with the same intense precision with which he chooses the words of a closing statement.

 _So this is what it feels like to match wits_  
_With someone at your level!_  
_What the hell is the catch?_  
_It’s the feeling of freedom, of seeing the light,_  
_It’s Ben Franklin with a key and a kite,_  
_You see it, right?_

Mike’s not paying any attention to Harvey’s hands, but neither is Harvey– instead his eyes are shifting slowly upwards, large and dark and wondering, and with a start Mike recognizes that expression. It’s the same look he gave Mike when he found out about his eidetic memory for the first time, slowly raising his eyes from the Barbri handbook.

 _The conversation lasted two minutes, maybe three minutes,_  
_Everything we said in total agreement._  
_It’s a dream, and it’s a bit of a dance,_  
_A bit of a posture, it’s a bit of a stance._  
_He’s a bit of a flirt, but Imma give him a chance–_

Mike’s thankful for the darkened room and for the fact that nobody’s looking at him, because his eyes are bugging out. How can Harvey have missed the parallels between their meeting and Alexander and Angelica’s? It’d be willful blindness for Harvey to learn this song, to study it until he can literally play it with his eyes closed without noticing–

 _He’s penniless_ , Angelica observes. _He’s flying by the seat of his pants._

And Mike’s breath stops.

Angelica starts a lament, listing reason after reason after reason why she and Alexander cannot marry. _The gossip in New York City is insidious_ , she says, and Mike is instantly reminded of the world of corporate law, which exploits every sign of emotional vulnerability, and the firm, which would tear such a romance to shreds.

Then there’s the problems with the power imbalance itself. On the one hand, Harvey can’t possibly suspect Mike of using him for social climbing purposes, like Angelica suspects Alexander. On the other hand, Harvey’s got a strong ethical core, no matter how hard he tries to hide it, and maybe he wouldn’t want to put Mike in a position that screws their relationship further, pun half-intended.

Now comes Angelica’s third and most urgent reason for staying away from Alexander– she can’t break up her sister’s engagement to him. And Mike knows Harvey knows about the women who step in and out of his life– Jenny, Tess, assorted one-night stands– plus he’s had a front row seat to the debacle with Rachel. With his feelings on cheating, he’d never cross the line, not while there’s still any chance of Mike and Rachel getting back together–

The song collapses, moving from full-volume fury to melancholy pianissimo in a heartbeat, and Mike’s theorizing shudders to a halt. Harvey’s poker face has utterly dissolved, and in its place is a look of naked yearning.

 _But when I fantasize at night_  
_It’s Alexander’s eyes,_  
_As I romanticize what might have been_  
_If I hadn’t sized him up so quickly . . ._

Harvey hurls himself into the song’s grand ending, where Angelica belts her heartbroken wedding toast, and his hands fly to the extremes of the piano. He picks out keys with all the zeal of a mad alchemist tossing ingredients into a cauldron, and he throws in virtuosic flourishes, fingers almost blurring with speed. Yet the melody rises back up, clear and pure and sad, as Angelica finishes her song:

_And I know he will never be satisfied–  
I will never be satisfied._

As soon as he lifts his foot from the pedal, the room bursts into applause, even as Mike sits, stunned into stillness. Yet Harvey’s poker face slams firmly back into place the moment he rises from the bench to bow. Of course, he smiles as he basks in the applause, but it’s his regular smirk, the one he deigns to throw out to clients and opposing counsel and outsiders of all kinds, nothing softer or deeper. Harvey sweeps back to the firm’s table and immediately starts jabbing at Louis– “This is a first, Louis, I just managed to beat you in a competition I wasn’t even in”– and teasing Donna– “You didn’t see that coming? What happened to knowing everything, huh?”

When Mike tells him he played exceptionally well, he replies that of course he did, Harvey Specter excels in every arena, it’s alarming that he hasn’t grasped this by now. There’s no trace of vulnerability left in Harvey’s demeanor, and Mike wonders if he imagined it in the first place.

* * *

Mike finishes his dessert first and slips from their table, heading down a quiet hallway to the bathroom just to clear his head, when he hears a creaking voice: “The suits do an excellent job of hiding that hunger-pang frame.”

He spins around to find Henrietta herself at the end of the hall, matching him in height thanks to rickety heels and the blue-gray hair piled on her head.

“Thank you?” he replies. “Rene would be glad to hear that his work’s apprec–”

She cuts him off: “Are you in love with Harvey Specter?”

“Uh– er– he’s incredibly straight, and I also prefer women.”

“You’re dead wrong on the first count,” she says, advancing steadily until she’s looming right in front of him. “I have footage to prove it. And ‘prefer’– well, that’s a lovely lawyer’s denial, but I know better than to take it at face value.”

He stammers for a moment before electing to shut up.

“Good choice,” she says with a nod. “So let me tell you what’s going to happen now. I’m going to take the recording of this entire conversation and send it to Harvey, and, while he can’t read people quite as well as I can, he’ll see your feelings plain as an open book.”

“What?” Mike squawks. “You can’t–”

“Like hell I can’t. This is the most fun I’ve had in half a century.”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because I think you’ll try to limit the damage by scooping me and telling him yourself.”

“I can’t . . . He doesn’t feel the same way.” He struggles for more words and finds none. “I can’t.”

“Boy, let me tell you something,” she says, silencing him with an imperious waggle of her finger. “Almost as long as I’ve been holding these balls, I’ve been waiting for Harvey Specter to play my piano. He signed up for my very first talent show, said he wanted to go first so it wouldn’t even be worth anyone else’s time to follow him. Then he dropped out.” She sighs, shaking her head. “Took me some investigating to figure out why. Turns out his father, the man who taught him to read music before he could read a book, had just passed. After that, I figured I was never going to hear Harvey Specter at all. Hear his playing, I mean, not his talking. He couldn’t stop that even if he wanted.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying he found his music again, and after today’s performance I’d bet all my companies it’s because he found you.”

“That’s a beautiful thought,” he murmurs, “but your evidence is at best circumstantial.”

“Well, I saved the best proof for last, naturally. My friend Norma, eyewitness on the front lines, tells me he watches you like he wants to devour you whenever he thinks _he’s_ not being watched.”

Mike chuckles, even while he swallows back tears. “So what do you think happens now?”

“Oh, well, I’d never presume to know exactly what you’ll do next,” she says, before raising one pencilled eyebrow and giving a Cheshire smile, “but I imagine that you’ll make your confession and then surgically extract one from him, and then he’ll take as much pleasure in taking off that tie as he did in putting it on, and then you’ll create some way to . . . _satisfy_ him.”

Well, creativity has always been his strong suit.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I actually rewrote “Satisfied” as a 100% Marvey song and covered it. You can find it [here](https://frivoloussuits.tumblr.com/post/162416857099/i-re-wrote-hamiltons-satisfied-from-harveys)!


End file.
